


3 AM

by chupacabras



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chupacabras/pseuds/chupacabras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it came down to it, Scud had a terrible time when it came to being lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 AM

When it came down to it, Scud had a terrible time when it came to being lonely. Before allowing himself to be almost gutted for the sake of infiltrating Blade’s tight-knit circle, he had the bloodpack to keep him company. A lot of the time they were complete assholes (Rheinhardt especially) but they all managed to get along. They were all obsessed with taking out Blade; they had trained to do it for years, and he had his little part to play in that. When he succeeded, he would be one of them. Rheinhardt would have to respect him, Chupa wouldn’t ruffle his hair and call him a dumb kid— and Priest wouldn’t think of him as some fangbanger. Lighthammer and Verlaine would probably continue to treat him like a little brother— but he wanted that. They were his family. Whenever those little boughts of being lonely would rear their heads it was easy to find one of them and work it out. Usually this involved showing off one of his many new gadgets; Scud was a genius in so many fields— but mostly in the language of weapons. The language of death, which the bloodpack spoke so well.

But sometimes they were too busy or just uninterested in his toys. Nyssa was usually busy playing princess— and it wasn’t like Damaskinos himself was good company. Wise, sure. The two of them connected when it came to science but emotionally— Scud knew that he was disposable. Just a pawn in their game that could easily be set to the side should something happen. Many of the bloodpack felt that way about familiars, and in the future he probably would too. When he was one of them, he told himself, the change in status would make all the difference in the world. They would want to be around him. The loneliness that would sometimes creep up on him would subside.

Until then, he would need other ways to deal with it. This usually involved diving into his work. Scud couldn’t be busy when he was trying to get gears to mesh and springs to release properly. But Scud needed noise to work— and in Blade’s warehouse noise wasn’t something welcome after certain hours. Hours when humans were supposed to be sleeping. He’d tried to work quietly with cartoons playing at a low volume at his side but it wasn’t the same.

And so he decided to take up one of his newer habits.

Whistler was tucked away in his room and propped up against pillows— light still on and staring up at the ceiling while lost in thought. From the doorway Scud could see that he was fiddling with the ring on his finger and his head tipped with an honest curiosity concerning what could be going through the old man’s head. The movement caught the gray haired man’s attention, snapping from his thoughts before squinting with suspicion.

"Th’Hell d’y’want, boy?"

Back when Whistler was being tortured by Damaskinos, it had been Scud who made the tank they kept him barely alive in. Over the years Scud would poke his head in and check to make sure the thing was running properly— but eventually it became natural for him to stay around Whistler as well. Sure, the old fuck was completely out of sorts and probably couldn’t see or hear him in the state he was in— but it always felt nice to be around someone who didn’t instantly bark for him to leave.

Ironic, considering it was now reflex to do just that.

Silence is exchanged between them, and Scud is careful with his expression. Whistler was cranky by nature and these encounters didn’t always work out as planned. Scud wanted permission to enter the room— but not as the loud annoying pothead that he could sometimes make himself out to be. He wasn’t there to play either; he lacked that mischievous glint in his eye or the filthy comments out the gate. This wasn’t about work, boredom, or sex. It was something else entirely and when a few moments pass, Whistler seems to recognize it despite its rare nature.

They don’t speak. Whistler tightens his lips before nodding, and Scud takes action. When he flops down on the bed next to the older man he makes sure his head is settled comfortable on his chest before letting out the gentle, relieved sigh. Whistler wraps an arm around him but he keeps his own close to his body; curled there with his boots hanging on the side of the bed behind him. Blues slip shut and for a while they just stay like that, chests rising and falling as the night tried to crawl on.

Scud drifts off like that— like some kid afraid of the dark who’d snuck into his parent’s room— but as Whistler continues to fiddle with his scuffed up ring he knows that isn’t quite the case.


End file.
